The Golden U-Boat

Chapter Twelve

David Lawton had been exploring one of the Falcon’s many excellent tool shops, when Magne Rystaad invited him for a tour of the ship’s bridge. The Texan readily accepted this offer and soon found himself entering a spacious compartment on the vessel’s topmost deck.

The night had long since fallen, and lit by a powerful bank of fluorescent tubes was an ultra-modern control room, from which almost all of the ship’s functions could be run. Only a single seaman was currently on duty here. Lawton recognized this sailor as Olav Anderson, the fellow who originally greeted him when he first landed on the diving support ship several days ago.

“I thought you were taking me on a tour of the bridge, Magne,” remarked Lawton facetiously.

“Where’s the wheel and all the controls?”

“I’m afraid this is it, my friend,” replied his host.

“Don’t let the lack of complicated dials and stacks of equipment fool you. Everything that’s needed to operate this ship is right in front of you.”

Lawton took a close look at the long, waist-high console that stretched the entire width of the compartment.

It was set up against a double-layered, wraparound windshield, and had surprisingly few instruments on it.

Standing at the central console, with his hand on a small joystick, Olav Anderson spoke in broken English.

“Here’s the wheel you were looking for, Mr.

Lawton. On the Falcon, we do things the modern way.”

“That’s an understatement if I ever heard it,” returned the Texan as he examined the ship’s state-of the-art radar unit.

“Back home we only dream of vessels such as this one. She’s sure got some fancy toys.”

“Noroil is currently designing another ship that will eventually replace this one in a few years,” revealed Magne.

“That vessel will even be more sophisticated.”

Lawton shook his head with wonder.

“You Norwegians sure know how to build a boat. I guess it comes from your Viking tradition and all.”

“With most of our land being mountains and fjords, we Norwegians have had to look to the sea to survive since the beginning of our history,” said Olav Anderson proudly, “In fact, they say if you cut a Norwegian, he’ll bleed both blood and saltwater.”

David Lawton laughed at this while checking out the high-tech push button annunciator and the thruster controls, which were also operated by joystick.

He reached out to steady himself when the deck suddenly rocked to and fro. The swell that caused this turbulence was far less intense than the rough seas they had encountered further south, and it soon passed. As the deck stabilized, he peered out one of the large windows that directly overlooked the empty helipad.

It was a dark, moonless night, yet he only had to look off to the port to view a wondrous sight that caused him to gasp in wonder. Rising from the sea here, like a floating skyscraper, was the Ice Field’s production platform. It was a monstrous structure, lit up by a variety of colored lights and powerful spots.

The lights belonging to the three tug boats that continued towing the rig to its final resting place could also be seen in the waters beyond, and Lawton commented appreciatively, “My, that is sure some sight!”

“It even takes my breath away,” reflected Magne, “She’s the largest production platform ever built. And even so, the sea’s almost swallowed her up.”

“That sure would have been a horrible waste,” said Lawton.

“We should have smooth sailing from here on up to Svalbard,” added Olav Anderson.

“At least we won’t have anymore gales like the one we passed through down south to contend with.”

“Let’s hope not,” said Magne.

“To tell you the truth, I seriously doubted if the Falcon could have done much if we got up here and still found the rig floundering.

At the best, we could have provided a place for the platform workers to evacuate to. Although in rough seas, even that can be a dangerous operation.”

“How far will be escorting her?” asked the Texan.

“As far as I know, all the way to Svalbard,” answered Magne.

“The company doesn’t want to take anymore chances with an investment this large at stake.”

“Have you ever been to Svalbard before, Mr. Lawton?” asked Olav Anderson.

“Mister, not only is this my first trip to Norway, but it’s the first time I’ve ever been above the Arctic Circle.”

The weather-faced seaman smiled.

“Then you’re really in for an experience, because Svalbard is unlike any other place on this earth.”

“Geologically, it hasn’t changed a bit since the Ice Age,” added Magne.

“And except for several coal mines and our new drilling operation, man hasn’t been around Svalbard long enough to damage its ecosystem much.”

“Sounds interesting,” said Lawton.

“Will I get a chance to do some diving there?”

Magne nodded.

“I believe that can be arranged, David. I might even get my feet wet this time. We’ll have plenty to do pre positioning the platform and checking its base for any storm damage. And with NUEX still gone, I’m going to need every diver I can find.”

“I wonder how those guys are doing,” inquired the Texan.

“I got a dispatch from their helicopter pilot while you were down in the machine shop. It seems that they made it to Tromso in one piece. At last report, Tromso reported blowing snow, and Karl will be staying up there with the chopper until the weather clears.”

“Did she say anything about that friend of theirs that they were supposed to meet up there in Tromso?”

asked Lawton.

“You mean, Knut Haugen?” explained Magne.

“No, come to think of it, she didn’t. I’m going to have to call Karl back and ask her about that. I just pray that NUEX manages to stay out of further trouble this time.”

“Those boys better have gone to the police if their buddy Knut had a lead on those criminals,” said Lawton.

“Otherwise, they could be getting into water that’s way over their heads.”

“NUEX might appear to be a little impulsive, but they usually listen to the voice of reason in the end,” remarked Magne.

“I can’t wait to tell them the latest on that gold bar. You guys really came back with a piece of living history.”

“You don’t really believe all that stuff about it being from the missing treasure of the Czars, do you, Magne?” questioned the skeptical American.

His host looked him right in the eye and responded.

“I don’t see why not. That serial number that we lifted off the bar was as clear as the day that it was imprinted.

The Russians sure didn’t have any trouble running it down, once Oslo relayed it to them.”

“But what’s a piece of gold minted in the time of Czar Nicholas II, doing inside the hull of a World War II German U-boat off the coast of Norway?” quizzed Lawton.

“That, my friend, only time and a lot more investigation will tell,” answered the Falcon’s diving supervisor.

“Do you think the boys will demand some of the reward money that the Russians are offering for the return of that gold bar?” wondered Lawton.

“It won’t make much difference what they demand, David. As far as Noroil is concerned, it’s now a company asset. But they know the score. They’ve been in this game longer than you think.”

Just talking about the group of young Norwegians, that he had spent over three days cooped up with, caused a grin to etch the Texan’s bearded face.

“Those boys sure must have gotten an early start in life. It’s hard to believe what they’ve already accomplished. At their age on my crew, they’d still be filling scuba tanks. But all the same, NUEX showed me that they were very capable divers. They still might be a little headstrong, but I attribute that to youth. At no time did they show signs of fear, and that’s one of the main things that I look for in a young diver.”

Magne slapped his guest on the back.

“We weren’t any different when we first started in this business, my friend.”

“I guess we weren’t,” reflected the American.

Magne beckoned toward the rear hatchway.

“Now how about joining me for a little workout in the Falcon ‘s exercise room, David? If we’re going to try keeping up with these youngsters, we sure better keep in shape.”

Lawton patted his firm stomach.

“After seventy-two hours cramped up in that decompression chamber, I’m ready to rock ‘n roll. Lead on, partner.”

There was a hushed, tense atmosphere prevailing inside the Cheyenne’s sound shack, as Joe Carter hunched over his console. After making a slight adjustment to his headphones, he cautiously turned up the volume gain on the sub’s bow hydrophone array. A stream of hissing static met his ears, and he once more reached up to change the frequency band.

Immediately behind him, standing with their backs to the thick acoustic baffle that lined the room were the Cheyenne’s two senior officers. Both Captain Aldridge and his XO initiated this unusual visit soon after the sub changed course and turned its teardrop-shaped bow toward the southeast.

Oblivious to this audience, Carter’s gaze remained locked on his repeater screen. The wavering lines that filled this monitor were visual equivalents of the sounds being relayed into his headphones by the hydrophones.

And in this instance, the computer indeed proved more sensitive than the human ear as the barest of oscillations on the screen indicated that there was a sound source out there that Carter had yet to pick up on his headphones.

“Bingo, Captain!” observed Carter in a whisper.

“I believe I’ve tagged ‘em again.”

“Is the signature strong enough to be fed through the system for an analysis yet?” questioned Aldridge.

Carter turned up the volume gain another notch and flashed a thumbs-up. Then he expertly addressed his computer keyboard with a flurry of commands.

All eyes went to the green-tinted monitor that was mounted beside the repeater screen. As it started to fill with data, it was Joe Carter who excitedly interpreted it.

“Big brother shows a sixty-seven percent probability that we’ve tagged an Alfa, Captain. We’re picking up machinery noise and the strong cavitation al hiss of a seven-bladed propeller.”

“Good work, Mr. Carter,” replied the Captain.

“I’ve been waiting an awfully long time to come across an Alfa. Does he know he’s been tagged yet?”

Carter shook his head.

“No way, Captain. We’re smack in his baffles. And since Alfas aren’t equipped with towed arrays, he might never know that we’re on to him.”

“What would a sub like an Alfa be doing in these waters, Skipper?” asked the XO as he pulled his corncob out of his mouth.

“We’re way east of Ivan’s normal transit lane into the North Atlantic.”

“I guess we’ll just have to hang around for a while and find out,” returned Steven Aldridge.

“Right now, they’re pushing in awfully close to Norwegian territorial waters, and that tells me that they just might be on a spook mission of some sort. So don’t lose them, Mr. Carter. I’ve got a hunch that these next couple of hours might prove damn interesting for all of us.”

Totally unaware of the vessel that followed in the waters behind, the Lena continued on its southward course down the coast of Norway. Admiral Alexander Kuznetsov had complete confidence in the sub’s ability to carry out its difficult mission, and was anxiously awaiting the initiation of the actual reconnaissance.

Most of this work would be done by the trio of Spetsnaz divers that they carried along. These highly trained special forces operatives would be dropped off near the spot where the Norwegian oil pipeline made its landfall. In Alexander’s opinion, this critical juncture was probably the weakest point of the network, where a saboteur only had to place a relatively small amount of explosives to shut down the entire pipeline.

The Admiral had utilized the Spetsnaz before, and they had yet to let him down. No job was too difficult for these naval commandoes, who prided themselves in creating a new meaning to the word impossible. If Alexander was fifty years younger, he would have loved to join their ranks. But this was only a fantasy of his, and he knew that he would have to content himself by merely being in their immediate presence.

The commandoes were currently staying in the Lena’s forward torpedo room. This was to be Alexander’s first visit to this portion of the ship, and he was surprised to find the divers bunked on mattresses set right on top of the torpedoes themselves. As he entered the equipment-packed compartment, he spotted one of the commandoes doing a lightning-fast succession of one-handed push-ups on the deck before him.

The lad was in superb physical condition, his muscles rippling beneath his striped blue and white t-shirt.

Another one of the commandoes was perched on his bunk stripping down his Kalashnikov assault rifle.

This brute had close-cropped brown hair, steel-gray eyes, and a moustache that extended well down to his chin, giving him an almost evil look. Alexander recognized him as the leader of the group and greeted him accordingly.

“Good evening, Lieutenant Kalinin. I’m sorry that I haven’t had a chance to visit you until now. I do hope these quarters are sufficient.”

Vasili Kalinin answered with a deep, rough voice.

“Believe me. Admiral, compared to some missions we’ve undergone, the Lena is like a resort hotel. Right now, our only worry is that we’ll go soft before it’s time for us to go to work.”

“I doubt that, Lieutenant,” returned Alexander.

“Anyway, it won’t be long now until we reach Karsto.

And then you’ll be able to properly stretch those legs of yours.”

“I understand that we came close to witnessing an accident back in the waters north of us,” commented the commando as he vigorously polished the barrel of his weapon.

“From the sound of it, some poor skipper is sure going to have all hell to pay.”

“At least it wasn’t one of ours, Lieutenant.”

“Can you be so sure of that. Admiral? The platform it collided with would certainly make a lovely target in times of crisis. Who knows, maybe that rig was being secretly sized up for just such a future operation.”

Knowing full well that the moustached commando could be right, Alexander nodded.

“I guess we’ll just have to wait until we get back to Polyarny to find out exactly what that racket was all about. But right now, we have different priorities.”

“So I understand, Admiral. So I understand.”

As the commando began reassembling his rifle, Alexander excused himself.

“Please give my regards to the rest of your squad, Lieutenant. I’ll be issuing your final briefing when it’s time to deploy.”

On his way back to his cabin, the white-haired veteran’s thoughts were centered on the brief encounter that he had just concluded. Lieutenant Vasili Kalinin might be a man of few words, but there could be no ignoring the fact that he was one of the Motherland’s fiercest warriors. He had already proven himself time and again, having won the Order of Lenin first class for bravery under fire in Afghanistan, and yet more decorations for a clandestine operation in Central America whose details even Alexander didn’t know.

The waters that Kalinin and his squad would soon be deployed in were cold, dark, and known for their treacherous currents. There was no telling what countermeasures that the Norwegians might have already placed here. Mines were their number one concern.

These could be of the acoustic, magnetic, or electrical signature variety. They would also have to be on the lookout for the newly deployed Captor system, a bottom-lying mine that could even be triggered by a passing diver. By its very nature, recon work was full of dangerous surprises; that’s what made duty in the Spetsnaz such a daily challenge.

Alexander was planning to return to his stateroom to get back to the paperwork that he had brought along with him, and was in the process of crossing through the wardroom, when a scratchy voice called to him from the wardroom table.

“Admiral, please come over and join me in a cup of tea. And there’s also some delicious fruit compote here for you to sample. My own mother prepared it.”

Finding it awkward to refuse the Zampolit’s invitation, Alexander decided that he could make it through a single cup of tea. As he turned toward the table, Felix Bucharin smiled.

“Good, Admiral. I’m certain that you won’t be disappointed with this compote.”

As Alexander sat down, the political officer unscrewed the metal lid of the large glass jar that sat on the table beside him. Using a spoon, he emptied a portion of this jar’s contents into an awaiting bowl.

After capping the mound of fruit with a dollop of sour cream, the Zampolit pushed the bowl in front of his newly arrived guest.

“Eat, Admiral, and enjoy, for not only did my beloved mother bottle that fruit with her own hands, she grew it as well.”

Alexander picked up a spoon and took a bite of the compote that was comprised of stewed cherries, peaches, plums and apricots.

“Why it’s very good indeed, Comrade Bucharin,” observed Alexander sincerely.

“So she grows this fruit herself, you say?”

“That she does, Admiral. In fact, when my father first settled in the Ukraine, he was the one who originally planted the fruit trees. He’s long cold in his grave now. But my dear mother still lives on the farm, and with the assistance of my brother Ivan, is still able to manage.”

Alexander responded to this while finishing the rest of his compote.

“If this dish is any example of her cooking, then I imagine it was pretty hard for you to leave this farm.”

The Zampolit patted his bulging belly.

“As you can see, I carry along my fair share of my mother’s legacy.

And yes, Admiral, it was hard for me to leave the land. But I chose my duty willingly, and have no regrets.”

Alexander poured himself a cup of tea and thoughtfully stirred in a spoonful of sugar.

“I’m sorry that I never got to complete my speech to the Komsomol, Comrade Bucharin.”

“Your apologies aren’t necessary. Admiral. All of us understand that you were called to a greater duty.

Though I personally was finding your summation most brilliant. It’s a shame that it was interrupted like it was. Did you and the captain manage to iron out your differences?”

“What differences are you talking about, Comrade Zampolit?”

The nosey political officer looked Alexander right in the eye and responded.

“Oh come now, Admiral. You should realize by now that on a warship this size, nothing stays a secret very long, especially when it concerns our commanding officer and his superior.

From what I understand, Captain Milyutin desired to change course and further investigate the mysterious collision that took place while you were speaking to us. Yet you countermanded the captain, ordering him instead to continue on with our preassigned mission.”

Impressed with the Zampolit’s intelligence network, Alexander was quick to set the record straight.

“Comrade Bucharin, you can rest assured that I in no way countermanded the captain. When it was determined that it was another submarine that was engaged in this collision, Captain Milyutin merely voiced his desire to turn the Lena around and have a quick look at the parties involved. Under ordinary circumstances I would have offered this suggestion myself. I must admit that I was just as curious as the Captain, and would have loved nothing better than to investigate the collision site.”

“Then why didn’t we?” questioned the perplexed Political Officer.

Alexander got the impression that Bucharin was attempting to deliberately probe in an effort to find material for his personnel dossier, and he answered guardedly.

“We are presently on a priority one mission, Comrade Bucharin. The Premier himself is waiting for the intelligence that we’ve been tasked to gather, and nothing short of a declaration of war is going to divert us from fulfilling our responsibility.”

Quick to sense the veteran’s sensitivity in this matter, the Zampolit backed down.

“But of course, Admiral. I understand clearly now.”

“It’s time for me to be returning to my cabin,” said Alexander as he pushed away from the table and stood.

“Thanks again for the compote, comrade.”

“Anytime, Admiral. Anytime at all.”

It was with great relief when Alexander finally made it to the private confines of his stateroom. There was something about the Zampolit’s demeanor that grated on his nerves. Determined to stay as far away from Felix Bucharin as possible for the rest of the cruise, Alexander turned for the desk and the stack of paperwork that awaited him there.